


Twelve Days

by andlightplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlightplay/pseuds/andlightplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things keep appearing at Bobby's in ever-increasing numbers; Dean is confused, Sam seems to find something funny, and Bobby just wants his yard back.</p><p>Originally <a href="http://andlightplay.livejournal.com/40699.html">posted on LJ</a> 06/12/11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Days

On Christmas day, Dean comes down and finds Sam leaning against the counter munching enthusiastically on a pear, fingers and mouth smeared with juice. Since Bobby’s stance on food, like Dean’s, tends towards things that have been prepared by other people and can be reheated as needed, and since the closest thing to fresh fruit Dean’s had in a while has been artificially-flavoured and covered in pastry, he boggles.

“Where’d you get that?”

Sam makes a complicated face and flicks his head at the window. “The tree. And happy Christmas to you too.”

“Yeah yeah, happy Santa day,” Dean says dismissively, eying the pear skeptically. Nothing grows in Bobby’s yard, probably because it’s scared it’ll get shot. When he goes to the window though, the tree is pretty hard to miss, growing as it is right smack in the centre of his line of sight and loaded down with fruit. In _December_. “What the fuck.”

“Don’t look at me, man,” Sam says, ambling up next to him and gnawing absently at the sad and skinny remains of his pear. “It was just there when I came down.” Dean, who’d been about to ask if Sam had wished for some kind of organic natural goodness or whatever for Christmas, closes his mouth.

The tree rustles, something skipping across the branches. Dean narrows his eyes, mentally cataloging the things he could use in the room for self-defense. No wonder the thing’s turned up in Bobby’s yard - it’s haunted.

“It’s a _bird_ , Dean,” Sam says patiently, amused, and Dean shoots him a glare.

“I knew that.”

*

The next morning, there are three of them. Birds, that is, not trees. Though trees might have been better, since that would probably have meant there was some angry nature spirit or tree nymph or something, rather than a Hitchcock movie in the making. Not that pigeons are that scary.

“They’re not _pigeons_ ,” Sam says, looking like he’s torn between rolling his eyes and trying not to laugh. “They’re turtle doves.”

“Doves are white,” Dean scoffs, resolutely ignoring the bowl full of plump ripe pears in favour of some left-over take-out. 

“No they’re not, most of them are actually multi-coloured, and some of them are really pretty,” Sam says, sounding like he’s about to go into lecture mode, and Dean makes a vaguely interested noise and tunes him out.

*

The chickens don’t look very scary either, but the fact is there are now six birds hanging out in Bobby’s yard where three days ago there were none. Bobby seems to be ignoring them in the hope they’ll go away, but they seem pretty comfortable despite no one bothering to feed them or anything.

“Those are some pretty fancy chickens, though,” Dean tells Sam, leaning on the windowsill to watch them strut around at the base of the tree, where they all seem to have set up some kind of bird headquarters. 

“Yeah, they’re French hens,” Sam agrees, sounding a little muffled. When Dean turns round, he looks like he’d like to bury his face in the laptop the same as he does a book, head ducked so his hair hides his face. Weirdo.

*

The blackbirds are also pretty cute, especially when you see the size difference between them and the chickens. They seems to be living quite happily off of the pears or something, but all the same Dean takes the toaster outside and shakes it upside down to give them some crumbs and add some variety to their diet or whatever crap Sam keeps spouting at him. They seems pretty tame, even the wild ones only fluttering a little way away at his approach.

“Uh, happy late Christmas guys,” Dean mutters, stepping back, and the birds all hop back over and tuck in.

*

The five pheasants officially make fifteen birds pecking around Bobby’s new pear tree. 

“You could shoot them?” Dean offers halfheartedly, and both Bobby and Sam scoff at him.

“Hardly a challenge if they’re just sittin’ there, is it?” Bobby says gruffly.

“So what, you’re gonna change it to ‘Singer Salvage and Petting Zoo’?”

“’Aviary’,” Sam corrects absently, watching the birds with a faint smile.

“What’re you so Cheshire Cat about, huh?” Dean asks, and Sam cuts his eyes to him and shakes his head, smile widening.

*

The geese, though, are kind of terrifying. They’re not that big, but they’ve got nests that appeared with them overnight, and they seem to take anyone who goes out into the yard as a threat, which means they waddle towards you deceptively fast, wings spread and hissing like snakes, evil little eyes glittering.

“Apparently they make really good guard dogs,” Sam remarks to Bobby, as Dean braces his back against the door in case the damn things rush it and tries to get his breath back. 

Bobby slants a look at Dean from under his cap. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Bobby, if you keep those psychos I am never coming here again,” Dean manages finally, and Bobby purses his lips and eyes him thoughtfully.

*

The swans come with their own pond.

“Okay,” Bobby says flatly, smacking both hands down on the table. “I was fine with the tree, cause I figure a little fresh fruit never hurt anybody, not to mention you can make pear cider and the wood’s good for carvin’, but I did not sign up for a complete remodel. I got a business to run here, and while one little fruit tree makes it look all homely or whatever psychology shit, this ain’t a botanical garden.”

“You’re talking like you know what’s doing it,” Dean points out, and Sam and Bobby exchange a look. 

“The point is,” Bobby continues loudly after a second, as if Dean had never spoken, “stop naturalizing my yard!”

*

Dean makes Sam open the door on New Year’s Day, and they find a row of metal buckets. Then they look up and see the grass. 

And the milkmaids. 

And the cows.

Behind them, Bobby makes an inarticulate noise and stomps back upstairs.

Dean tears his eyes away from the milkmaids and crouches down to dip a tentative finger in one of the buckets. “It’s _warm_.”

Sam clicks his tongue and looks down his nose at him. “Well yeah Dean, it’s just come from a cow.”

“I _know_ that, jackass. What the fuck are we supposed to do with it?”

Sam shrugs. “Make a lot of ice cream?”

*

The drums set the animals off, and the racket probably wakes up everyone in a five mile radius. 

“THAT’S IT - GET OFF MY PROPERTY, ALL OF YOU!” Bobby yells from downstairs, and when Dean looks out he’s wearing a hat with his bathrobe and actually brandishing a shotgun. The drummers look genuinely terrified and do as they’re told, drums bouncing in front of them. 

The slam of the front door makes the cows shuffle uneasily, and Dean hears the milkmaids muttering among themselves, but they don’t get hustled out onto the porch so obviously Bobby just meant the marching band. In any case, kicking those poor girls out in the middle of the night would be cruel.

*

The next day seems normal until the evening, when they take Bobby out for a drink and a particularly raucous bachelorette party abducts Dean. He can’t really complain, since they’re all young and hot and keep buying him drinks, but he keeps catching glimpses of Sam and Bobby laughing at him. At least Bobby seems in a better mood.

Dean collapses in bed that night with nine phone numbers scrawled on various areas of skin and a whispered invitation from the bride-to-be that he was always welcome for a threesome.

“Guess you wouldn’t be too impressed with me if I took her up on that, huh Cas?” he asks the ceiling, but falls asleep before he gets an answer.

*

They go on a grocery run the next day, so of course they go past a church just as the couple are leaving, confetti raining down and eleven pipers in police blue soundtracking their exit.

“Huh,” Sam comments, watching out the window. “I was wondering how...”

“How what?” Dean asks, and watches with interest as Sam’s shoulders go tight.

“Uh, how...how early the first wedding of the year would be?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah right. You wanna maybe add Modern Bride to the list, Samantha?”

“Shut up, I like seeing happy stuff for once,” Sam says, shoving at his shoulder. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“Oh yeah, that’d go down real well,” Dean says sarcastically. “‘Hi, I’d like to marry this dude, only he’s not really a dude, he’s an angel of the Lord, so don’t worry, it’s all totally a-okay Upstairs. We first met in Hell, figured we’d better make it official with the cloud brigade too.’ Though I bet Cas’d wear a dress if I told him it was traditional.”

“He’s not _stupid_ , Dean,” Sam says disapprovingly, but his mouth is twitching.

*

“Dean,” Bobby is saying, exasperated, “for the love of God, just get your ass outside already.”

“Why?” Dean asks, opening the door and rubbing the towel over his hair, and Bobby rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like “damn fool angels”.

“Just _do it_ , boy.”

Dean tosses the towel up over the door to dry, shoves his feet into his boots and goes clattering down the stairs, ignoring Sam, who’s sprawled on the couch sniggering to himself. Freak. 

He opens the door, and it’s like Narnia or some shit, a whole ‘nother world that hits him like a physical blow, the sudden blast of sound like turning on a radio with the volume all the way up. The drummers and pipers are back, kind of playing together, and the noise is making all the animals go nuts; couples are doing some kind of swing dance in the free space where the animals aren’t, and right smack in the middle is the familiar trenchcoat, Gabriel beaming behind him with his arms spread wide.

“How’d you like your Christmas present, Dean?” he calls.

“Quieter!” Dean shouts back, and suddenly, like some giant mute button’s been pressed, there’s no sound at all.

“Better?” Gabriel queries, still grinning, and Dean nods warily. “Oh, be more enthusiastic! Baby bro here worked his wings off!” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “I tell ya, you haven’t lived ‘til you’ve seen him running around trying to corral wild swans.”

Dean gets a sudden mental image of Cas, disheveled and panting, with white feathers in his hair. Yeah okay, he’d have liked to see that. “This was really all you, Cas?”

“Well,” Gabriel says modestly, “I helped. A lot.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dean says, ignoring him and speaking to Cas. “It’s, uh...been memorable.”

“Gabriel said it was traditional,” Cas says quietly, looking at Dean with that little half-smile and the particular kind of openness and affection Dean’s never seen him direct at anyone else. 

Dean blinks at him. “To turn people’s homes into farms?”

“It’s the twelve days of Christmas, Dean,” Sam says from the doorway behind him, sounding like Dean’s too dumb to live, and Gabriel flourishes a hand at him.

“Sam Winchester, the brains of the outfit as always.”

“Shut up, Gabriel,” Sam says with no heat at all. “Seriously, Dean? You never guessed?”

“No!” Dean says defensively. “I- weren’t there supposed to be gold rings?”

Gabriel waves hand at the nearest pheasant. “Ta dah!”

“They’ve got a collar of yellow feathers round their necks,” Sam explains wearily.

“Look, Cas,” Dean says, because Cas is looking like Dean kicked his puppy and then ran over it several times just to be sure. “This is all really...uh, nice, but you could’ve just got me some mistletoe and had done with it.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers and a sprig of the stuff appears above their heads, revolving gently. “This is our cue to go inside,” he stage-whispers at Sam, and Sam rolls his eyes and holds the door open for him.

Cas is eyeing the mistletoe like it’s a conundrum he has no clue how to solve. “You...wish me to present you with a poisonous, parasitic plant as a token of my feelings?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting closer, “because mistletoe is also traditional. See uh, whenever two people are under it, they have to kiss.”

Cas’s eyes flick up, then down to Dean’s mouth. “It still seems like a very small present to have given you,” he objects, and Dean huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, but it’s the thought that counts.” And he wraps his fingers around the lapels of Cas’s coat, pulls him in and kisses him.

Gabriel wolf-whistles from the roof of the porch. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean’s about to flip him off when Cas flicks his fingers and there’s a rush of air and the abrupt cut-off of Gabriel’s cackling.

“Can we maybe do this without any of the audience?” Dean asks, pulling away just enough to talk and gesturing at the silent band still playing and the silent couples still dancing away behind them. Now he looks, he can see that there are more guys then girls, so two dudes are dancing together and twirling each other enthusiastically. 

“Can do!” Gabriel says from right behind him, snapping his fingers again, and Dean turns to glare at him and hopefully impress upon him that ever mentioning again that Dean maybe jumped at the sound of his voice and ended up almost standing on Cas's foot will result in his second death. The grass vanishes, along with both people and animals, and Bobby’s snaps back to gravel and old cars, not a green thing in sight.

“Thanks Gabe,” Deans says genially. “Now fuck off and don’t creep on us again.”

Gabriel makes a wounded face surprisingly similar to Sam’s, pressing a hand to his heart, then disappears with that faint wing rustle.

“That mistletoe just gonna stay there?” Dean asks Cas softly, and Cas nods without looking up at it. “Awesome,” Dean breathes, and reels him back in.

**Author's Note:**

> This is apparently the unofficially official version of the song, with all original context and meaning intact. Or so [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Twelve_Days_of_Christmas_%28song%29) informs me.


End file.
